The Diary of Caspar Kruse III, Executioner: Goslar, April 18, 1638 – Catrin Meyers – The Scent of Her Mother

 

She trembled as she was brought in. Not from cold — the morning was mild — but from within, like a branch under strain. Her name had been on the list for three days, and today was her turn.
Catrin Meyers, twenty years old, a weaver’s daughter, no husband, no children. She lived with her mother on the edge of the district near the Zwinger. A girl who liked to sing. Who dried herbs at the window. Who petted the neighbor’s cat and sometimes stole flowers from the graveyard.
One of the children had seen her at dusk near the parsonage. She had sung beside a stone.
That was all.
The council said, “Disturbing.”
The preacher said, “A seducer of young minds.”
I said, “Bring her.”

She could hardly stand. Her ankles gave way as she entered the Ulrich Chapel. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were red.
I asked her:
“Did you know what people say about you?”
She nodded. “My mother cries. But she knows I never did anything.”
I asked:
“Did you sing at the graveyard?”
“Yes. But not for anything. Only because I could be alone there.”
I asked:
“What did you sing?”
She answered softly, almost whispering:
“A lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me.”

I gave the signal.
We bound her to the bench.
Jörg tightened the straps. Bastian fetched the screws.
I began simply.
The shin-turn.
A dry twist.
Her knees drew together.
A groan.
Another turn.
She screamed. Not loudly. As if she wanted to hold herself back.
Then she said:
“I sang for the child she lost.”
I looked up.
“What child?”
“The unborn one. The neighbor’s. She didn’t want it. I took it outside. I wrapped it in a cloth and buried it.”
The theologian raised his hand.
“Confession of devilish burial rites.”

I felt the sweat beneath my collar.
Then I took the iron.
Not to burn her.
But to mark her. A cross on the inside of her arm. Not as punishment — as a sign. As remembrance.
She watched.
She did not scream.
She sang.
“Close your eyes, close them soft…”
“Do not look back, do not look up…”
The flame opened her skin.
And she kept singing.

Note (evening):
My hands still smell of ash. And of something else.
Mother’s milk. Perhaps.




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